I was born in Vella, the capital of the Kingdom of Seawatch, in a little section known as Bottom Hill. It was the place where the trash and sewage emptied, where the sick would go to die, as would the rule of law. The city’s more crooked guards were a common sight in the area.

They would whore, drink, and gamble to their heart’s content, rarely batting an eye to the crime perpetually occurring in the area. It wasn’t until some poor fool decided to pickpocket them that they sprang into action. 

That happened once, long ago, when I was still a boy. I was walking down Crooked Tree Way-what I had personally called the street, as none of them were named. It was the middle of Helga’s Warmth, the hottest day of that season. The sun beat down on the debris lining the path. The stink of moldy fruit, bread crusts, and human waste hung in the air like a giant, poisonous cloud. The rats scurried past my feet slowly, burrowing under the castle wall to my right and the brothel to my left. Both were common sights and smells in Bottom Hill, and I paid little attention to either. Instead, I focused on an older man coming up the road ahead of me.

Wispy, white hair hung over his wrinkled face. His skin had gone yellow and his eyes were red from some illness that wanted to linger as long as possible. Beneath the brown sheet he was wrapped in, I could see blemishes all over his body. He picked at them as he stumbled around, mumbling nonsense. As soon as he reached the brothel, he stopped dead in his tracks and looked down.

Initially, I thought he was staring at a heap of tin left outside the building. When the pile began to move, I realized it was a guard who had had too much to drink. A moment later, the old man’s face lit up. Carefully, he reached down, picking up a coin purse around the watchman's waist.

As soon as it was in his boney fingers, the guard sprang to his feet. He stumbled around, struggling to grab the club at his side. “Hey!” he slurred, “Unhand my coin!”

The old man didn’t have a chance to run. He dropped the purse and the silver crowns spilled out. The guard’s truncheon met his jaw afterward. A stream of blood shot over to the stone wall, while teeth and coins scattered across the street like marbles. The elder collided with the ground face-first.

Afterward, the guard took a knee, facing my direction. He shut his eyes and grabbed his forehead as a sharp pain suddenly came to him. It took all his might to get back to his feet. He slowly circled around the old man, picking up the money that had come loose. He took the purse and tucked the coins away, keeping one copper piece in hand.

He tossed it onto the elder’s back. “There,” he said, spitting on him afterward. “To take you on your journey through The Frozen Wastes. See you there!” He chuckled and walked away.

Some may have called my existence a curse. Later in life, however, I came to realize that I had been blessed, in a twisted sort of way.

Those streets were as violent as they were filthy. If I wasn’t fistfighting with the older kids, I was running away from bandits who were looking to rob me of my few valuables. In Bottom Hill, you had to fight if you wanted to survive.

Once childhood passed, I had enough muscle to take down a small adult. Naturally, I took to robbery myself, and began making regular trips to the Market District.

I stood beneath the stone archway entering into that section of the city. Looking ahead, I saw the great fountain standing at the center of the square. The water trickled from a stone marlin atop a pillar. Merchant stalls were set up all around, where the wealthy of Vella gathered. Logg’s Light was in full swing. The sky was clear and the air was warm. That day had been so perfect that nobody would have been keeping a closer eye on their pockets (I hoped).

Tucking my head under my tunic, I entered the sea of people, keeping low. Dirty children weren’t welcome among the Vellan elites, so I had to move quickly. The people tripped me and kicked me in the ribs as I darted past. Thankfully, they had all been rushing about too quickly to mind me. The deeper I went, the less crowded it became.

Once I reached the edge of the fountain and made it to the other side, I could actually see some of the stuff being sold. To the left, an old knight in armor was selling some old swords and shields. At the right, an Isle man with painted skin was selling odd-looking pottery. Across from me, in between the two junk traders, was a row of cakes.

They were small and light brown. The sugar dusted on top twinkled in the sunlight, making them look like little lumps of gold. Behind them, a fat baker in a white apron and hat was returning with some fresh, hot ones. A breeze came, carrying the delicious steam over to my nose. Could I be blamed for wanting to steal one?

The desserts put me into a short trance. After a long while of gazing at them, my stomach roared. The baker left for his shop again, and I moved forward. A man of his size clearly wasn’t starving, as I had been my entire life.

I reached the stall, taking one of the cakes in my small, grimy hand. Foolishly, I stayed there longer than I should have, fighting back the urge to not scarf them all down at once. When I finally tuned back for the people, the baker called after me.

“Hey, thief!” he squealed. “Thief! Thief!” He ran around his stand and charged after me. He dropped even more fresh baked cakes in the process, stomping all over them. I vanished into the crowd. 

The baker’s cries sent everyone into a panic. They spilled coins and other luxuries as they rushed about, looking for the criminal. I bore an even worse gauntlet of kicks than before. As I neared the stone archway, I took a knee to the face.

I escaped the people and dashed under the arch, heading back down to Bottom Hill. The blood rushed down my face, leaving a trail behind me. 

The nosebleed blew over quickly, as I expected it to, and I didn't see anyone follow my trail. I came to the tall brothel near the south gate and climbed the ladder leaning against the side. Once I was on the roof, I leaped for one of the battlements, hoisting myself onto the wall. Patrols never came around midday. I learned their patterns early on.

From there, it was just a short run until I reached the roof of the treasury building. I went to the very end, where there was a statue of Lokk the Swindler. 

I took out my cake and then looked up at his demon-like face, protruding from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Should I have given thanks to him for such a successful day of thieving? I thought about that for a moment and then started to laugh.

The Guardians meant little to me. My prayers were never answered by them, and the priests serving them in the city were just as corrupt as anyone else. They were a horrible, bloodthirsty band of bastards besides that. Instead, I tucked myself under Lokk’s cape, looking down at the villas.

They were huge, painted white and gold to match the colors of Seawatch. A rainbow of roses grew around them, sweetening the air with their smell. Some had earned those homes trading wines, many more by trading slaves in the Isles (though the crown never seemed to investigate this). 

As I stared, I took a bite of my cake. It was no longer warm, of course, but the texture was like biting into a sugary cloud.  I threw back my head, sighing with pleasure. For once, it was nice to eat like the rich (and to look down upon them).

The elites, as I called them, were weak-too weak for this cruel world we inhabited. I had been a fighter since I was a boy. On my own, I had become a warrior, while the elites were showered with toys and sweets. When they came of age to begin thei pillaging, they always left the bloody work to their poor, unfortunate underlings. On such a victorious day, I was inspired to bring new meaning into my life-to wage my own little war against them.